The Merchant and the Sparrow
by Lilou88
Summary: This shemlen with the thick accent and arrogant smirk may very well be the most infuriating person Arianni has ever had the misfortune to have met. It's a shame the feeling isn't mutual. An exploration into the relationship between Arianni and Vincento pre-Dragon Age 2. Written for the 2013 Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang for artwork done by the lovely Foxghost.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This was my very first attempt at writing for all of the characters present in this fanfic, and it was a great challenge! I do hope you all feel that I've done them justice and enjoy the story I've given them.

As a fair warning to any and all who may wish to read,** there are a couple potentially triggering topics mentioned within this story** in very short, minimally-detailed moments. Abortion is discussed, as well as a mention of sexual assault which does not take place within the timeframe of this particular fic.

**Please note: **any opinions about potentially controversial topics which may or may not be gleaned from this story are not necessarily my own, and are simply meant to reflect how I thought the individual characters would feel about them.

Also, I'm super sorry to any of my followers who got an alert for this story twice. There was a problem with posting where a large chunk of the story was deleted from chapter 2 while uploading, and wouldn't let me fix it no matter what I tried. I ended up having to delete the whole story and try uploading it a second time. Again, so sorry!

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**The Merchant and the Sparrow - Chapter 1**

The first time she lays eyes on him is through the sight of her bow, an arrow nocked and trained on the center of his chest.

"State your business here, shemlen," she says, spitting out the word as though it is venom on her tongue, "and be quick about it. My brethren and I have little tolerance for your presence."

Hareth grunts in agreement beside her while Lenaila steadies herself behind them, the creak of bowstrings thunderous in the silence which has descended upon the makeshift camp. Their quarry, a brunette human still tangled in the mess of blankets which had been dragged from his tent with him, raises his hands in pacification.

"My dear lady," he says, voice thick with sleep and an accent Arianni has never heard, "I assure you, whatever trespasses I have committed against your people were entirely unintentional. Please, allow me to properly introduce myself."

"She did not ask for your name, nathair," Hareth says, snarling through bared teeth.

"Regardless, I give it freely. I am Vincento, former apprentice to the merchant Santo of Antiva and current owner of Vincento's Northern Merchandise. At your service," the shem says, his attempted bow towards her hindered by his woolen tether. "And you, cara mia. May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?"

"A peddler, is it? You're an awfully long way from your market," she says, ignoring his question and not bothering to hide her contempt.

"Truer words have yet to be spoken. The others in the city, they told me that this would happen. 'Do not be absurd,' they said, 'the Dalish would sooner cut you down than speak with you.'"

"Your friends are wise, it is a pity you were not intelligent enough to heed their warnings."

Lenaila takes a step forward, pulling even between Arianni and Hareth. "Enough of your stalling, shem. Either tell us why you have come or prepare to meet to whichever gods you pray."

"Fair enough, fair enough," he says, surprisingly calm in the face of his predicament. "I have come seeking an audience with your leader. I wish to discuss a business proposition I believe they will find most advantageous for your people."

"The clan has no need of whatever it is you have to offer, and our Keeper no time for fools."

"Ah, but I believe that is where you will find you are wrong, Passera," the shem says, a corner of his mouth quirking in the face of Arianni's glower. "The craftsmen of your people, they are always in need of new materials, are they not? Ores, tools, fabrics - things not easily found so deep into the wilds as you are. I, on the other hand, find myself with abundant access to such things, all of which are of the highest quality to be found this side of the Waking Sea."

The tip of her arrow dips towards the ground as she regards the man, brows knitting over her eyes. "You wish to trade with our clan, then?"

The human nods in confirmation, his hands slowly lowering to rest on his legs. "Precisely."

"How do we know he's telling the truth?" Lenaila asks, eyes still firmly trained on him. "This could be a bluff. There could be more shem waiting for us to lead him to the camp."

"Had I companions lying in wait, do you truly think they would leave me in such a... delicate situation as long as they have?"

"If they valued their lives."

"Yes, I suppose I can see your point," the man jerks his head, gesturing behind himself. "See for yourself if you must. My cart and wares are just beyond the tent. I guarantee you will find nothing more threatening than sewing needles and a few smithy hammers."

"And what of you?" Arianni asks, watching as Hareth slips behind the tent, the sound of rustled canvas and jostled crates drifting towards them as he searches through the man's belongings. "Do you carry any weapons?"

"I have a knife tucked into my belt and a small dagger in my left boot," he says without hesitation, making no move to remove them himself. "If you would be so kind as to allow me to stand without firing an arrow into my heart, you may have them as a show of good intentions."

She motions with her bow, the string still taut between her fingers. "Get up. Slowly. Keep your hands away from your sides."

"As you wish, Passera."

The human stands in one fluid movement, kicking his mess of blankets into the open flap of the tent before turning to face the remaining elves. Arianni relaxes the tension of her weapon and places it in its holster on her back, lips tight and eyes narrowed as she takes her first tentative step towards him, comforted by the continued train of Lenaila's arrow on his chest. The leg of his breeches is rucked up, revealing the hilt of a blade just visible along the cuff of his boot. She jerks the dagger away without care, tucking it into the pouch at her hip.

"You are not an especially gentle creature, are you cara mia?" he asks with a laugh as she begins pawing at his sides in search of the knife. "It seems far from likely that I will make it through this day without bloodshed after all."

"Quiet, shem," Arianni says with a sneer, her nose wrinkling at the smell which wafts towards her as she tugs at his tunic. He reeks of dirt and musk, tinged with some other heated scent, like spices from a foreign land. The knife is found low on his hip, and is removed with the same brisk efficiency as Hareth returns from the cart. The human offers her a smile at her retreat. She returns it with a poisonous scowl and stuffs his blade into her pouch with its fellow.

"Well?" Lenaila asks Hareth. "Did you find anything?"

The elf shakes his head. "The shemlen spoke the truth about his wares, and I found no signs of others nearby."

"Magnificent," the man says, still grinning as he lowers his hands to adjust his clothing. "Now as you can see, I have been more than cooperative in your interrogations. I would be most appreciative if you might take me to your camp as I requested - or at least allow me to return to Kirkwall without further injury to my person."

"What say you, Lethallan?" Hareth asks Arianni, his bow returned to his hands and once again pointed towards the human. "Shall we take him to the Keeper, or leave him to the mercy of the Creators?"

Her answer does not come at once, tongue stalled by her continued scrutiny of the man and the contemplation of their options. There is a part of her which wishes for nothing more than to see him run off yelping into the wilds like the dog he is, whining in fear with his tail tucked between his legs. Yet, as tempting a thought it is, she is not arrogant enough to believe her personal convictions make her worthy of passing such judgment - this is a decision which must be turned over to the Keeper. Supplies are troublingly low in camp of late, their relocation into the Planasene Forest too recent for them to have found trustworthy trading partners amongst the merchants of the Free Marches. Whatever proposition this shem holds could very well be a much needed windfall for the clan. Hispresence may be insulting and glibness infuriating, but if her tolerance of it means the benefit of her people, she simply will have to endure.

She groans and presses two fingers to the bridge of her nose, resigned to the annoyance she is about to bestow upon herself. "Pack up your things, and be quick about it. We leave for camp in ten minutes' time, with or without your company."

"You have my humblest of thanks, Passera," the human says, canting head towards her in thanks. "You will not come to regret this mercy, I promise you."

The trek back to camp, normally made in an hour's time, takes their group the rest of the afternoon to complete. Roots and thick underbrush catch and pull at the wheels of the shemlen's handcart, resulting in a frequent need for them to pause while he finagles his way around whatever obstacle lies before him. Finally, with tempers short and the sun well on it's way to setting, the Dalish and their human charge find themselves at the edge of a wide forest clearing, the red canvas covers of the clan's aravels a welcome sight for weary travelers.

The hunters' companion gains the curiosity of every elf they meet as they make their way by the first row of shelters, many of the elders throwing whispers to one another behind their hands while the young ones simply gawk or laugh at his stunted ears. News of the unorthodox guest spreads like a wildfire. They have no more than reached the midway point of the camp before their group is approached by a middle-aged woman dressed in green robes, the staff of their clan's First nestled between her shoulders. She spares the shemlen little more than a polite glance before bringing her attention to Arianni, no more perturbed by the outsider's appearance within their camp than one might be for a passing cloud on a clear day.

"Andaran atish'an, da'len. It is good to see you have returned safely," she says, hands folding behind her back. "Many were concerned there had been trouble during your hunt."

Arianni crosses an arm over her chest, hand resting over her breast as she bends in greeting. "Lethséal ghathai, Marethari. As you can see, we happened upon an... unexpected delay during our journey."

"So it would appear." The woman's eyes fall onto the human once more, though this time they do not turn away. "Tell me, child, what name do you go by?"

"I am Vincento, la miasignora," he says, rushing to drop the handles of his buggy to offer her a bow of his own. "Most pleased to have made your acquaintance."

"Such refined manners. Tell me then, Vincento, what brings you this far into the forest?"

"The shem is a merchant," Lenaila says, spitting out her answer before the human has time to blink. "He comes to speak with Keeper Seril about establishing a trade agreement."

Marethari hums in acknowledgment, though her focus does not falter from the man's face. "Is this true?"

"It is as the lady has said."

"Very well. If you will follow me, I will take you to Keeper Seril. I believe he will be most eager to meet with you."

The woman turns in place without another word, her course deliberate as the human trails in her wake with the hunters close behind. Those of the clan still milling nearby part to allow the First's passing, their curiosity palpable enough that Arianni feels it dance like electricity over her skin.

Keeper Seril's aravel is not far from the center of camp, the golden flags adorning its posts high enough to graze the branches of the ancient oak it sits beneath. A fire burns in the pit beside it, the smoke and flames obscuring the outline of a man bent over as he tends to its coals. He looks up at the sound of their approach, his hunched posture revealed to be not the result of his task, but of exceptionally old age. Deep wrinkles crease his face, and the hand which comes to rest along the shaft of his stave is as gnarled as the roots of the tree behind him.

"Aneth ara, Marethari," the elderly elf says, voice thin and rasped, though brown eyes shine almost unnaturally bright. He looks over the assembled group with a calculating gaze. "You have brought guests."

"Yes, Keeper," their First says, dipping forward in greeting. "This human, Vincento, wishes to speak with you. An offer of commerce, it would seem."

"It is an honor to be allowed amongst your clan," the shem says as he steps forward to greet him, dipping low enough that his nose nearly brushes his knees. "Your people have been most – hospitable."

The Keeper gives a huff of laughter at the human's words, looking from his drooped head to the mix of indifference and disgust playing across the faces of his escorts. "Please, dear child, flattery is not needed in matters of business. Particularly when it is so blatantly false."

The man smirks as he raises himself upright. Arianni has to fight the urge to roll her eyes. "You are a wise and perceptive man, signore. A fortunate set of traits. It will be a simple matter for us to reach an accord we both deem acceptable."

"We shall see," the Keeper says as he steps towards the entrance of his quarters, pushing the covering aside with his staff before looking back to the human and his First. They follow him inside silently, the canvas door falling shut behind them with a soft swish.

"Has the Keeper gone mad?" Arianni asks incredulously, unrepentant despite the irked glares her shouting earns her. "It's one thing to tolerate the filthy shem long enough to trade with him, but this? Making me give his weapons back was bad enough."

Night has fallen over the forest in earnest now, the camp's clearing illuminated by the glow of scattered campfires and a pale wash of moonlight. Many of the clan have settled in for the evening, having tucked their young ones into bed and gathered themselves around their flames for a meal and murmured conversation. Arianni sits on one of the benches arranged in a circle outside of the aravel she shares with Lenaila and three other of the clan's maidens. A small fire burns at her feet, the scowl she wears made deeper by the flickered shadows it casts across her face.

"calma fein," Marethari says quietly, leaning over to place a warm hand on her knee. "Keeper Seril did not make his decision lightly. He has only the best interests of the People in mind."

The First's reassurances do little to quell Arianni's anger, giving a derisive snort as she tilts forward to rest her head in her hand. "I see no benefit in allowing a human to stay within our camp. Why not make him go further into the forest?"

"There is greater safety in numbers, you know this as well as I. The woods are dangerous for a single man."

"That seems to be more a benefit than a downfall. Perhaps the wolves would have driven him off. Or eaten him."

Marethari stiffens at her words, disapproval pulling at the corners of her mouth. "That is a terrible thing to say, da'len. I am surprised at you - such cruelty is not part of your character."

Arianni heaves a heavy sigh, glancing up to find the human still standing by Ashalle's fire, gratefully accepting what is either his third or fourth helping of stew. He is smiling warmly at her, stepping closer to whisper something in her ear. She giggles, a hand coming up to cover her mouth before she swats playfully at him with her serving spoon. Something hot and acrid twists in the pit of her stomach at the sight of them, and Arianni looks away with a peevish humph.

" Lethséal ghathai, Marethari," she says in lackluster apology, returning her attention to the bowl of her half-eaten meal. She dips a piece of bread into the gravy before bringing it to her mouth, the First's chiding tsks unheard over the sound of breaking crust as she chews.

A few long moments later the relative silence which has fallen between herself and the First is broken by the sound of shuffled feet through grass, a pair of worn boots appearing at the edge of her vision. She glances up at the newcomer, only to have her ire flare back into life at the sight of Vincento, bowl of stew in hand and arrogant grin still firmly in place.

"Ladies," he inclines his head to each of them in turn. "Might I have the pleasure of joining you?"

"Find another fire, there's no room for you here." Arianni says shortly, irritated to find the glower she shoots him does nothing but make his smirk widen.

"Come now, da'len, there is no need for such rudeness," Marethari's brows pull together, frowning at her churlishness before looking to the human. "Please, Vincento, make yourself at home."

"My thanks, la mia signora," he says happily as he drops onto the open half of Arianni's bench, placing himself far closer to her than necessary given the size of the seat. His body pushes against her side, the same aroma of heat and spices wafting past as he takes his time settling in. She pulls herself as far from him as the bench will allow, sliding away so she is left perching on the very edge, his arm and leg still uncomfortably close to her own.

The man, either unaware or untroubled by her discomfort, continues to watch her, fiddling with a piece of potato on his spoon before saying, "It seems with all the excitement of this afternoon, I have still managed not to learn your name, cara mia. Please, tell me, what may I call you by? A woman as lovely as yourself must surely possess a name of equal quality."

"My name is my own, shem." she says hotly, prodding at a piece of venison and pointedly avoiding his gaze. "I will not share it with the likes of you. Turn your attentions elsewhere, they are unwanted here."

"Ah, but you wound me!" his hand clutches theatrically at his chest, head falling back. "I simply wish to know more about the woman responsible for my safe passage. You were the one who agreed to allow me amongst your clan, after all. What harm is there in giving me your name?"

"Let me make this perfectly clear," Arianni snaps, setting what remains of her dinner on the ground before she turns to glare at him. "I brought you here for the well-being of my people, not out of any concern for you. Any benefit you get out of the arrangement you have made with the Keeper means nothing to me. I do not care to know any more about you and I would sooner snap my bow in half than share anything about myself. Now, if you are quite finished with your prattling, I suggest you leave me be."

"Ah, and so my curiosity is denied once again," the human says with a mournful sigh, his expression shifting to sly in a matter of seconds. "Not to worry. I am a very patient man, Passera. You will tell me in your own time, I am certain of it."

"I wouldn't hold your breath." She brings herself to her feet, eager to be away from the contemptible man. Her dishes are collected and dumped into the washing basin with unnecessary fervor, the slow, exasperated shake of Marethari's head ignored as she storms past the campfire to the entrance of her aravel. The wooden base of the landship creaks as she hoists herself in, turning to face the human long enough to throw a last caustic glare before she yanks the entrance cover shut. She wastes no time nestling herself underneath her covers, eyes screwing shut with a huff as she does her best to will her temper into dormancy.

The sound of the man's laughter coupled with an enthusiastic wish for her pleasant dreams does little to help.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Merchant and the Sparrow - Chapter 2**

The human remains within their camp for the next week, his tent pitched and wares stored alongside Master Ilen's workshop. The better part of his mornings and afternoons are spent bartering, the elves' interest sparked by the wide array of tools and materials laid out on display before his cart. Most members of the clan come to regard the man with aloof indifference, any initial distaste quickly overcome by his silver tongue and a showing of deference worthy of shemlen royalty. Many of the young ones, caught up in curiosity which far outweighed their parents' wariness, entertain themselves by poking about his goods. They coo at their novelty and pester the man with a barrage of questions about them, all of which are answered with equal enthusiasm. Arianni, while irritated by the clan's easy acceptance of the human's presence, cannot help but be grateful for the steady stream of distractions her people offer the man, as it denies him the chance to pester her with his own line of inane proddings while she goes about her day to day business. Nights, however, are a different matter entirely.

Every evening, without fail, the human makes a point of joining her and Marethari by their fire, the hostility she spills into her words and threads through her bearing having no effect on his determination to make her meals as miserable an experience as possible. Queries and stories pour from his mouth like the torrent of a waterfall, the never ending sound of his voice enough to leave Arianni's head aching. More than once he asks for her name, always with a lifted brow and lip. Each time her denial becomes shorter, until she eventually gives no response at all. Rather than discourage him, her terseness only intrigues, oftentimes leading to further nagging which has her stalking off to bed earlier and earlier each night.

This pattern of events continues on for some time, the man coming to their clearing in the forest at the start of each month with merchandise to trade and new tales to share with Arianni, regardless of whether or not she wishes to hear them. He tells her of Kirkwall, the shem city to the east, his homeland in Antiva and of the countless other countries he has visited in his travels. He speaks of family separated from him, some by nothing more than the sea, others by their forced admittance to the Circle of Magi. There are countless attempts made to coerce her into conversation – ever more questions asked about her family and her travels as well as remarks made which she suspects are worded with the sole intent to provoke her into a reaction, though none of them grant him significant success.

At least not at first.

The mid-summer evening is pleasantly warm. Many of the clan have taken to leaving the flaps of their aravels open in the hopes of enticing a breeze in, the entrances covered by thin screens purchased from the human's goods to protect against unwanted insects. Marethari has not joined them this evening, her attentions snared by the mother of an infant no more than several hours old who has need of healing after a long labor plagued with complications.

"I have a question for you, if you would not be offended by my asking," he says, breaking what had been a rare moment of silence between his constant bouts of chatter. He pauses in his work to glance up at her, a whittling knife and small block of wood still in hand, a pile of shavings collecting on the tops of his boots.

Arianni snorts, glaring at the man from across the fire. "You say this as though that has ever made you hold your tongue in the past."

"Your markings," he says, overlooking her jab to gesture at her face, blade still tucked between his fingers, "the ones your people wear. I find myself curious as to why. As beautiful as yours may be, I find it difficult to think they are meant simply for decoration."

There is a split second where she feels something tug in her chest, the word _beautiful _echoing through her head before she is able to shove it out of mind.

"They are _vallaslin_," she says, the answer given lacking her usual venom, "'blood writing' in the common tongue. They are a mark of our heritage, a symbol which sets us apart from both the _shemlen _and the elves who make a home out of your cities."

If the man feels any surprise at her tolerance of his question, he does not show it. Instead, he gives a short, contemplative hum, as though he is genuinely keen to learn of a tradition which is not his own.

"And every member of your clan will receive them?"

Arianni nods, her lips pressing together as she tries and fails to decide where this willingness to indulge the human has come from. "Once they come of age, yes. It is a rite of passage - a mark of their growth into adulthood."

"I can imagine the process is most uncomfortable."

"Very much so," she says, cringing at the memory of the white-hot bite of a needle across her skin. "Though, enduring the pain is not nearly so difficult as remaining quiet."

"What do you mean by that?" the human asks, head tilting to one side with a thick brow quirked, his carving abandoned on the bench beside him.

"The ritual is done in silence," she says easily, bending forward to place a fresh log on the fire between them and sending a burst of sparks into the air. "Any shouts, any cries are considered weakness, a sign that the clansman is not ready for the duties their role will burden them with as adult. Thus we remain mute to prove our strength and our worth."

"_Caro Creatori,_" the man says with reverence, his eyes widening. "The commitment you Dalish have to your culture is truly astounding."

She frowns. "To what little we have left of it, in any case. There is still much from the times of Arlathan which remains lost to us, taken when the humans burned our cities to the ground and forced our people into servitude. It is one of the reasons we brand ourselves with the _vallaslin_, so that we may not forget the few shreds of our history we still possess."

A hush settles between them as Arianni's words trail away, the elf growing appalled by her abrupt civility towards the man. She curses herself for the folly, certain her lapsed guard will have done nothing but feed the man's arrogance and condemn her to still greater annoyances. Resigned to her ridicule, she raises her head to meet the human's gaze, steeling herself for the triumphant grin she knows he will wear now that he has been victorious in their informal game of wills.

There is no air of pride in his presence, no self-satisfaction turning the corners of his mouth. In his eyes she sees honest interest, paired most unexpectedly with something she can only think to call polite remorse. The sight of it leaves her feeling winded, unsure how she should feel about such a display, or why her stomach has suddenly twisted itself into knots.

"A tragic fate for a race so proud, no doubt dealt by cruel hands," he says solemnly, sighing as though the plight of the Dalish is a sorrow of his own. Arianni feels her hackles begin to rise at the statement, certain that this man, this shemlen, could not possibly find sadness in the downfall of her people. No human she ever encountered has truly cared before, not without desiring something in return for their sympathy.

"Keep your pity, human," her eyes narrow, a measure of her usual spite returning to her voice. "I have no need or patience for false platitudes."

"Cara mia, pity has nothing to do with this," he says sincerely. "I mean what I say when I tell you I find such atrocities reprehensible. A culture so ancient, so intriguing, deserves far more respect than that which it has received."

"I - oh," Arianni blinks, stammering and caught off guard by the man's apparent honesty. "I - did not realize that was how you felt."

He chuckles, teeth gleaming in the firelight. "I suspected so. It is quite clear that you judge people far too quickly. Not to worry, I know the perfect way for you to make amends for such a vile transgression."

Her eyes snap to his face, only now finding the coy smirk she had expected far sooner in this conversation. "I owe you nothing, human, and if you so much as suggest -"

The man's chortle turns to a full bellied laugh, one hand clutching at his middle as the other wipes away mirthful tears. "Ah, cara mia, again you jump to false accusations! Please, allow me to state my proposal before you insult my honor as a gentleman. All I request from you are answers."

"I will not give you my name."

"As you have every right not to. Clearly, I have not yet earned it."

"Then what do you want?"

"Your story," he says, swinging his arm in a wide gesture towards the rest of the camp, "or the story of the Dalish, to be more precise. I find myself with an insatiable desire to know more of your people's past."

"You do?" her question is short, skeptical. "Then ask Hahren Piavel to tell it to you. He is our story teller, not I."

"Ah, but then I would have to leave and deny myself the pleasure of your company. How could you suggest a course of such cruelty?"

"You are going to insist upon this, aren't you?"

The firelight catches in his eyes as his mouth turns. "I am afraid so, Passera."

Arianni groans, dropping her head and rubbing at her temples. "Fine, then. Ask what you will and let us be done with this foolishness. Quickly."

Just as she had suspected, the human pays no mind to her insistence that his interrogation be done with haste, his list of questions and requests for clarification only growing as the evening carries on. What does surprise her, however, is her lack of annoyance at his probing. Whether this tolerance is born from the safety of discussing something so familiar or the respect she hears in the man's replies, she cannot be sure, though she finds herself unbothered by her indecision.

She speaks freely of the Creators and their bitter rivalry against the Forgotten Ones - tells the tale of how they were sealed away from the realm of the People by the traitor Fen'Harel to leave only he, the Dread Wolf, able to walk amongst them. Each of the gods' roles are explained in what she knows is excessive detail, but she carries on nonetheless, persuaded by the human's imploring and a warmth she had never before noticed in him. They spend no less than a half hour discussing Andruil alone, his interest piqued by her teachings in the Way of Three Trees and the influence they play in the clan's way of life.

The history of the Dalish is shared as well, or at least as much of it as Arianni is able to remember without the help of Piavel's records. She recounts everything she can, from the destruction of Arlathan and their aid to Andraste in her rebellion against the Emperium, to the brief sanctuary they found in the Dales before their second homeland was stolen from them as well.

She cannot be sure when it happens, but somehow the story of her people transitions into the story of her clan and their travels across Thedas. There is a moment here where their fragile decorum is shaken, the human making the mistake of referring to the halla which accompany them as "beasts of burden", earning himself a less than friendly reminder of how heated the elf's temper can become. He is quick enough to apologize for his oversight, however, and after a few minutes of lingering indignation their conversation carries on, returning to a level that Arianni still sees as oddly free of emnity.

The human's curiosity is finally sated after he receives a long-winded account of the places her caravan has traveled throughout the past years, ending his press for information with sincere thanks for her indulgence. He says nothing further, turning his focus to whatever project he has made for himself out of his whittling, thick fingers tightening around the knife and block of wood as he takes them back up into his hands. Arianni watches him for several long minutes, the silence between them once so fervently craved now leaving her with an strangely unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach.

The man begins to hum as he works, the sound low, deep in his throat and following no tune she can decipher. Still, there is something unusually comforting in its sound, the rise and fall of its unrefined notes soon banishing her unease and lulling her into a potent calm. This reaction should anger her, startle her at the very least, but she can muster nothing of the sort. Her thoughts remain muddled, overtaken by a contentedness which washes over her like warm water. She does not understand why – frankly does not care to – but she knows she must hear more from this man. A hum, a laugh, anything.

"What about you?" she asks tentiatively, her voice hoarse from overuse. "Care to share your story?"

A large piece of wood falls to the ground from his blade. "I have already told you all there is to know about me."

"Yes, well," their eyes meet, and something warm flutters beneath her breast. "This time I am actually willing to hear it."

His laugh is full and eyes bright, their stormy blue vivid in the light of the fire. "Ah, cara mia, but how could I refuse such a request from a woman as lovely as you? Very well, if you insist."

Their discussion picks up as though it had never ended, the man falling easily into his role as storyteller. He tells her nothing she has not already heard, though this time her attention is rapt, save for one instance when she finds her focus drawn to the way his lips move when he speaks. It is only when the fire has died down to ash and the remainder of the camp has retired for the night that they decide their discourse must end.

Arianni stands, stretches and yawns, her back protesting at the sudden change in position as she makes her way to the entrance of her aravel.

"Goodnight, Passera."

She turns then, looking over her shoulder to find the man standing as well, tucking his knife into his belt and the now rounded block of wood into his pocket. Something clicks into place at the glance, and she speaks without thought, without caution.

"Goodnight... Vincento."

"Why do you insist on calling me that?" Arianni asks as she leans against the wheel of the human's cart, her bow jostled to one side of her back as she settles.

Vincento glances up from his stool, his blade stilling at her question. He has been working on the same carving for close to a month now, having claimed to need something to keep his hands busy during their shared meals and the rare lulls he finds himself in between customers. The once rectangular block has now been transformed into something vaguely bird-shaped, with what appears to be a beak and tail feathers protruding from either end.

"Call you what, Passera?"

"That, right there," she says, her arms folding in front of her. "Pa-sor-rah or however it is you say it."

He chuckles at her poorly attempted Antivan and more at the frown she shoots him. "Pas-serah. Your accent is atrocious."

"Just answer the question, Vincento."

He shrugs, the scrape of metal against wood returning as he resumes his whittling. "You will not give me your name, and I am certainly not going to speak to you as though you do not have one."

"But why would you call me Passera of all things?"

"Because it suits you."

"What does it mean?"

"Ah, that I will not tell you."

"I see no valid reason why not."

"Let me propose something, then," he says, eyes flicking to her while a smirk snakes across his mouth. "I shall tell you what it means, if you will give me your name."

Arianni's eyes narrow as she glares down at the man's head, the midday sun catching in his hair. "You're trying to trick me, aren't you? I give you my name, and then find out that 'Passera' is just some nonsense word you made up."

"You over-estimate my proclivity for forethought, cara mia. Why ever would I wish to deceive you so? I am only offering you the opportunity for fair trade. A name for a name, it is as simple as that. If you find the terms unsatisfying, then please, forget I ever mentioned it."

She does not say anything for a long moment, pondering as she watches the quick work of callused fingers over wood and steel. Fingers she has the sudden, mad urge to feel entwined with her own. Her grip tightens around her arms at the thought, and she is certain that, despite the man's distraction, he knows she blushes when she speaks next.

"I will... consider it."

There is satisfaction in the man's voice as he replies, the sound trailing after her as Arianni starts towards the hunting grounds. "That is all I could ever ask of you, cara mia."

The next few days pass by quickly, and soon enough Vincento must return to Kirkwall once again. He packs his things, takes requests for specific items and sets out for the city in the east as he always does, leaving nothing behind but a flattened patch of grass and scattered wood shavings by Master Ilen's workshop. His departure is all routine, done quickly and with complete adherence to established normalcy in every aspect, save for one.

Arianni misses him.

The realization comes quickly, presented to her in horribly obvious ways she tries to explain away, but with little success. She is too prone to staring at his empty place by her fire, her heart too easily startled into skips and jumps when she hears a laugh or a voice which sounds even a little like his own. Her focus is hazed, distracted almost constantly by thoughts revolving around their late night talks, his smile, his hands. By Mythal, his hands. It is ludicrous, but she cannot for the life of her banish the image of them from her mind. She daydreams about them, the way she thinks it would feel to hold them in her own, to have them cupped against her cheek, brushed along her arm. More than once she is discovered in the midst of one of her musings by a clansman, her preoccupation during their hunts earning her Lenaila's frustration and Hareth's concern. He seems to think she has fallen ill. Luckily, their notice is easy enough to dismiss. Marethari's, however, is not.

Morning is well on its way to afternoon when the First finds Arianni staring off into space over a pile of arrows she has been neglecting to sharpen, the mage's appearance enough to startle her out of her daze.

"Aneth ara, Marethari," she says as evenly as possible, sparing a short glance up from her place on the ground before returning her attention to the still-dull arrow in her grasp. "I trust the day finds you well?"

"It has been fair enough," the woman says cordially, voice light despite the way Arianni feels her eyes burn into the back of her head. "Though it would seem the same cannot be said for you."

A guilty child caught with a handful of stolen sweets could feign innocence better than she in this moment, but Arianni makes an attempt at it regardless. Her voice catches tight in her throat as she asks, "Whatever would make you say that?"

"Come now, da'len," Marethari folds gracefully to the ground, "you are much too old for such dishonesty. There is no shame is admitting you miss Vincento."

Arianni slumps forward, all determination to maintain her facade lost at how easily the woman has seen through it. "Is it that obvious?"

"I have watched the two of you grow close to one another," the First says warmly, the lines at the corners of her eyes crinkling. "Far closer than I would have ever expected, truth be told. If I remember correctly, you were the one who wished we had left him for the wolves, after all."

She cringes at the memory. "Vincento is - not what I had expected. He cares. About our people, about our past. And he is kind. Not because he sees profit for himself in it, but because he wishes to be so. I've never met another human like him. It is... refreshing."

"Yes, there is much our people and his own still have to learn from one another. The friendship you have developed is an encouraging sight. Yet I wonder if there is something more between the two of you."

The whetstone Arianni holds slips through her fingers, falling into the grass by her legs with a muffled thud. She collects it again with haste, her fingers fumbling as she forces a laugh while hoping the heat she feels building in her face does not show. "Now that is absurd. The man still doesn't know my name!"

"Calma féin, child," the woman says as she raises a hand between them, "I only wish to offer you a word of caution. By all means, keep your accord with Vincento, but do not allow it any further. You know as well as I that Keeper Seril and the others would not look kindly upon you if you were to pair with him."

"Marethari!" She looks to the First in embarrassed horror, her face now flaming. "I have no intentions of - of pairing with anyone!"

"I see," there is disbelief tucked between her words and folded into the lines of her face. "You may wish to speak with Vincento on this, then. The way he looks at you when your back is turned – I have seen enough courtings in my time to know when a man has more than simple amity in mind."

The shaft of the arrow in her hand snaps in two.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Merchant and the Sparrow - Chapter 3**

If the week leading up to her conversation with Marethari had been slow to pass, those following it came to a near stand-still, lingering like the nip in the air after a late winter storm. Whatever semblance of normalcy Arianni had been able to maintain was soon abandoned. Any attempts made to cling to routine are rendered futile by muddled thoughts which dog her throughout her days and keep her up long into her nights. She tries, fails, and tries again to make sense of the unfamiliar emotions which have built into a fever pitch in her breast, with little to no real success.

When the first of the new month finally arrives along with Vincento, she has yet to make any progress in her struggles. By now, autumn has well and truly fallen upon the camp, the forest's green now tinged with splashes of fiery hues while the evening air carries with it the bite of colder days soon to come. For the first time she can recall, the human's hands are still as they rest by their fire, tucked into the folds of a cloak while his breath rises and turns to mist in the air before him.

What may have once been considered a companionable silence now presses heavily on Arianni's ears, the crackle of burning logs and murmur of distant conversations the only noises to distract her from the way her gut has tangled into knots. Part of her is ashamed of her cowardice, disgusted at the notion that of all the foes and challenges she has faced in the past, this should be the one which leaves her overwhelmed. This is simple - nothing. It should not be so hard to act, to say something. She is uncertain, yes, and does not fully understand what it is she has come to feel for the man or how to explain it, but such reluctance on her part is unacceptable. And yet each time she tries to speak her words are stilled, cut off by doubts which refuse to release their grasp on her tongue.

It is not the threat of discovery which stays her. Marethari may hold concerns for the clan's reaction should they be found out, but keeping such matters away from prying eyes would be a trivial feat at best. The woods are old and vast, more than capable of hiding such secrets should the need arise. No, it is something else which holds her back, and its simplicity would be enough to make her laugh were it not so utterly frustrating.

She is scared. Scared of rejection, of embarrassment, of laying herself bare before him, only to have her confession thrown back in her face. All petty concerns, for certain, but still she cannot shake herself free of them.

This stalemate between her desires and her apprehension drags on for what feels like ages, Vincento left blissfully unaware all the while as the night passes on. It is only when the rest of the camp has fallen into slumber and he begins to move in preparation to leave that she is finally able to spur herself to action, least her hesitance condemn her to fighting through the same battles again at a later time.

"Arianni."

The human pauses, hands braced against his thighs as he passes a perplexed gaze across the fire. "I'm sorry?"

"My name is Arianni." It is not everything she wants to tell him, but for now it is enough.

The grin he gives her sends a flash of heat racing through her, instantly banishing whatever chill the late night may have held. "So you have decided to accept my proposal after all?"

"It would appear that way, yes." She tries to scowl at his cheek, only to have it turn into a smirk of her own. "And now you owe me a name as well. Or at least an explanation of one."

His laugh is thick and genuine, eyes gleaming as he lowers himself back onto his seat. It is a wonderful sight.

"That I do!"

The cloak around his shoulders shifts as he dips a hand beneath it, patting at his sides and rustling the wool as he does so. After a few moments of searching he pulls something from the pocket of his breeches, small enough that it is hidden from her view by the width of his palm.

"Here. Catch," he says lightly, tossing the item to her over the fire's blaze. She jerks towards it without hesitation, arms flying forward and hands cupping around whatever it is to snatch it out of the way of the leaping flames. Her fingers open as she pulls herself upright to reveal a wooden bird, its wings extended as though in flight.

"What is this?" she asks without looking to him, her eyes fixed to the impossibly intricate details of its plumage, each feather and change of color marked in vivid relief.

"A gift. And your answer."

Her brow lifts as she glances at the man, who seems to have found a great deal of amusement in her confusion. "Do you think you could be a bit less vauge?"

"That is Passera," he says, gesturing at the carving with his chin. "'Little Sparrow' in Antivan. A creature of humble beauty; who happens to possess a most impressive amount of pluck when defending their nests from those who stumble upon it."

Arianni's heart throws itself into a wild clatter against her ribs, his words and the realization that this is what the block of wood from so many months ago has become making her breath catch in her lungs. That it was meant for her, possibly always had been, only makes her pulse quicken, and it is with a stab of awkward self-consciousness that she feels the prick of tears in the corners of her eyes.

She stares down at the bird to avoid Vincento's notice, turning it in her fingers as she stumbles through her gratitude. "I – this is – unexpected. I do not know what to say."

"You like it, then?"

She nods enthusiastically in answer, wiping the back of one had against her eyes as quickly as possible before lifting her gaze to the human once more. Her smile is softer than she has ever managed. "It is beautiful, Vincento. Ma serannas - you have my thanks."

Something like satisfaction warms his expression. "You are most welcome, Passera."

The thrum of her heartbeat picks up at the sound of her name on his tongue.

Several minutes pass with nothing said between them, Vincento seemingly content to enjoy her fascination with his gift. Arianni cannot speak, her thoughts too jumbled and throat too tight to make a sound. After a time, the human begins to stir again, standing from his bench and stretching with his arms held high above his head.

"Well then," he says through a gaping yawn, "as enjoyable as this has been, I am afraid I must bid you farewell for the night, cara mia. If I stay here much longer, I very well may end up falling asleep in my seat and rolling into the fire."

"Oh. Yes, of course. We wouldn't want that," she says, unable to think of anything else to say with her head still reeling. "Keeper Seril would be sorely put out if you burned down the camp in your sleep."

"That I do not doubt. Until tomorrow... Arianni."

"Until tomorrow, Vincento."

The man gives a quick bow in farewell before turning to leave, the hem of his cloak billowing about his legs and sweeping through the dried grass as he goes. He disappears slowly into the darkness, Arianni's ears catching the sound of his shuffled footsteps until they too fade away. She lingers by the fire a while longer, eyes unfocused, her fingers tracing the lines of the bird in her hands. The smile she had worn at their parting turns tender as it spreads further across her face, accepting in quiet surrender that she is utterly and irrevocably doomed.

Resigned to and slightly giddy at the prospect of her fate, she does not permit herself to wait a moment longer. She surges to her feet, carefully tucking the carving into the pouch at her hip as she strides away from her aravel and towards the center of camp with a purpose and enthusiasm she has never known.

Her destination is found easily, the tent still pitched in the same place as it has been every month without fail since the end of spring. A lantern's soft glow passes through the canvas walls, too dim to cast more than blurred shadows, but it is enough for her to see the outline of a man moving inside. She pauses when she reaches the entrance, a hand left hanging before it reaches the covering flap. She allows herself a few precious seconds to steady her nerves and stomp down on the wave of nausea threatening to overtake her, unwilling to retreat now when she has already come so far. She takes a deep breath, holds it in her lungs as she closes the last few inches between her fingers and the cloth, clutching and pulling it aside with one swift jerk.

Her mouth goes dry at the sight before her. Vincento is bent over his cot and naked to the waist, cloak and tunic abandoned in a pile at the foot of his bed. He is all hard, smooth lines, with olive skin made warm and enticing by the candlelight's glow. His head snaps towards the doorway at the sound of her intrusion, looking at first irritated by the invasion of his privacy until he sees it is her.

"Ah, Passera," he says with a lascivious grin as he stands, eyes narrowed while he watches her enter the tent. The flap falls shut behind her with a muffled swish, the sound as final in its damnation as a slamming door. "I thought you might find your way here."

It is madness, pure and simple. More than once she laughs out loud at the absurdity of it all, certain if she had been told just four short months ago that by the time the leaves began to fall she would find herself both captivated and bedded by a shemlen, she would have struck the messenger across the face for daring to speak such slander. But here she stands, opening her heart and sharing her body with a man she once wished nothing but misery upon. The irony would be more than she could stand if it were not for how thoroughly pleased she is with the outcome.

Each night remaining of that week is spent huddled against his chest, the both of them wrapped in a tangle of blankets and rumpled clothes. They whisper back and forth to one another for hours on end until Vincento inevitably succumbs to sleep, leaving Arianni to slip from his arms and tent to return to her own bed, saddened to go but spurred on by the need for discretion.

As painful as it may be not to acknowledge their shift from friendship to – whatever it is they have become to one another, she knows the deception is one of necessity. Marethari's cautioning words still ring clear in her ears, the threat posed to them should her clan members discover their trysts enough to keep them cautious. She considers it a stroke of good fortune that most everyone seems oblivious to their liaisons, with the possible exception of the First, whose sidelong glances hold more than a subtle note of suspicion. If the woman has guessed, however, she does not broach the subject, something Arianni is eternally grateful for. She may hold great respect for Marethari and know her concerns are built on valid reasoning, but she will not let herself be swayed by frivolous fears. Not any longer.

And so they keep their heads down and meetings hidden, clinging to the old routines of their days as best they can to avoid detection. For nearly two months they reap nothing but reward for their efforts, basking in each other's company and warmth throughout the ever colder autumn nights without repercussion. But like all good things born out of secrecy, so too does their bliss come to have its foundation cracked and shaken.

Three weeks have come and gone since Vincento's latest departure for Kirkwall, and Arianni feels like death. Whatever illness she has caught will not cease its torture, the slight fatigue which came on more than a fortnight ago having grown into a full assault on her body. Simple tasks once requiring little to no effort leave her on the verge of exhaustion, the muscles in her back turning cramped and knotted like the roots of a gnarled tree. A dull ache quickly forms at the base of her skull, building over the course of days until it has turned into an incessant throb that encompasses the whole of her head. Worst of all is the nausea following shortly after, which, while not a constant contributor to her misery, makes its presence known in a most unpleasant fashion. Every morning without fail, Arianni is pulled from sleep by a sensation she equates to having her stomach sent rolling over rough ocean waves, signaling her need to run for the nearest bush least she soil her bedding with what remains in her stomach of the previous evening's meal. Thankfully these bouts of sickness pass quickly and, when she is lucky, keep to the first hours of the day before the sun has risen, when everyone in camp has yet to stir.

Most everyone, in any case.

The ground is cold and unyielding beneath Arianni's fingers, nails digging into the half-frozen earth as she retches behind the infirmary tent, unable to cross the distance to the edge of camp before her stomach begins to heave. She coughs and sputters as the last drops of bile work their way up her throat, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand when the sound of approaching footsteps make her still.

"Da'len?"

Arianni's shoulders droop at the sound of the woman's voice, her momentary embarrassment remedied in a matter of seconds. If there is any one person who must see her in such a state of misery and dishevelment, she is glad that it is her.

"Aneth ara, Marethari," she says weakly, her efforts for normalcy diminished when a second wave of nasuea rakes through her, leaving her trembling as she fights against the urge to dry heave.

A pair of gentle but firm hands wrap themselves around her arms, guiding her back into a sitting position before cool fingers press themselves against her brow. Her eyes flutter closed at the sensation, breath leaving her in a sigh of appreciation for the minute comfort it offers her.

"How long, child?" the First's voice asks softly in her ear, her head having tipped back to rest on her shoulder.

She throws out a hand to gesture at the ground before her. "This? A few days now. Everything else, longer. I thought it would pass in time," Another shudder wracks through her, Marethari's grip tightening around her arms. "I suppose that was wishful thinking. Why are you up so early, anyway?"

"Terath's baby is colicky. I was with her for most of the night," Marethari says, pulling her to her feet. She is held steady more by the First's assistance than her own shaking legs. "Come now, child. Let's get you inside so I can take a closer look at you."

Arianni finds herself led slowly around and into the tent, laid out on a cot with an arm thrown over her eyes while Marethari works her way through a list of questions about her symptoms. She answers them all as best she can, teeth gritting when the woman begins pawing through a battered crate of supplies, the sound of glass jars clicking together as loud as thunderclaps in her pounding head.

"And the fatigue has lasted how long, now?"

"A little over two weeks," she answers, peering out from under her arm to watch the woman pull several bottled herbs from storage. "It's gotten worse since."

"A stomach flu most likely. Strange that there's no fever," the mage says more to herself than her charge as she sets two vials along the edge of the bed beside her. Her gaze meets Arianni's before she continues, the hand she places against her own a welcome reassurance. "No matter. Some ginger and mint should do the trick. I'd like to check a little closer first, though. Just to be certain of what we're facing."

She gives a quick nod of agreement, her arm falling to rest by her side as Marethari's hand works itself under her tunic to rest on her stomach, a dull green glow forming where they touch. Pleasant warmth spreads like vines from the tips of the First's fingers and across her skin, easing the ache still present as it probes deeper and reaches throughout the whole of her torso from collar to hip. The heat begins to pool, pulsing as though it were a living thing when it anchors itself mere inches from the juncture of her thighs. She has all of a moment to puzzle over why the magic would center so low in her body before it and Marethari's hand are quickly pulled away, leaving behind a hollow which is soon filled with renewed discomfort.

"Arianni," she says, voice measured, lacking all previous ease, "I am going to ask you something. It is of the utmost importance you answer me honestly."

Her brow, already creased from the return of her nausea, pulls taunt at the sudden graveness in the mage's tone. "All right. What is it?"

Marethari heaves a great breath, as though her words carry a weight she struggles to heft. "Have you coupled with Vincento?"

She is plummeting, the ground beneath her split open into a bottomless and black pit. The implication behind the woman's words drops into place like a boulder in her gut. With a flurry of movement which sends the bottled medicines tumbling to the ground, she jolts upright on her cot, the muffled clink of scattered jars lost to the hum of blood rushing in her ears. Jaw slack, eyes wide and pulse pounding in disjointed rhythm, she looks to the First, finding the confirmation she dreads written in the purse of her lips and the lines at the corners of her eyes.

Her tongue darts out to lick at suddenly parched lips, the sharp stab of fingernails cutting into her palms the only tether she can find in this sudden squall of panic. "No. No, you're wrong," she says with head shaking, though the conviction of her denial is cheapened as she feels the color drain from her face. "It's something else. Check again. Please. Marethari, check again."

"Magic tells no lies, da'len," she says solemnly, busying herself with collecting her herbs from the floor of the tent.

Hands shake as she raises them to her face, her fingers tangling in and pulling at her hair while she fights to find a train of thought not stalled by disbelief. Eventually her thoughts coalesce, blank shock receding to be overtaken by an anxiety which pours itself through her veins, sharp and frigid as river water on a winter's day.

"What do I do?"

Marethari halts in her work, eyes shadowed by exhaustion and what Arianni knows is disappointment, recognition wrapping around her like barbed twine. An unmistakable grimness settles over the mage as she bends to the crate at her feet, pulling from its depths a third vial half the size of its fellows. Long stemmed flowers with leaves no bigger than the nail of her little finger lie dried and brittle below the glass. The first reaches for her hand, pulling it free of her hair and pressing the bottle into her palm.

"What is this?" Arianni asks, staring at the tiny lavender buds through the spaces between her fingers.

"That is pennyroyal," the First says somberly, refusing to meet her eyes and choosing instead to stare off into the far corners of the tent. "A tea made with one of its stalks would – resolve – your predicament."

She blinks slowly, focus still trained on the deceptively harmless looking plant, certain she has misheard. "Resolve?"

"Mixing it in with food will produce the same results, but the tea would be the more efficient method." Marthari stands, wiping her hands on the front of her robes, clearly uncomfortable with where their conversation has turned. "It causes discomfort and potentially more nausea, but so long as you use only one stem there should be no other side effects."

"You – this will -" she stammers, tripping over her tongue as she stares, horror struck and incredulous at the woman's suggestion. "You mean me to – to end it?"

"I do not mean for you to do anything, da'len," the mage says, voice distant and back half turned away from her. "I only wish to offer you an alternative course. Though I cannot stress enough that if you wish to take it, it would be best to do so now when none are the wiser. You may have hidden your dalliance well enough, but there will soon be nothing that can be done to explain away your – condition. Let alone a child born with human features."

Arianni's stomach flips, the last shreds of denial she has so desperately clung to scattered like fallen leaves in a gust of wind. Her free hand falls to rest on the still-flat plain of her belly, the woman's words sounding in her head until they have burned themselves behind her eyes.

A child.

"I – can't."

Marethari looks back over a shoulder, sympathy and determination both present in even measure. "Think carefully before you make your decision, Arianni. You must realize the clan will not tolerate this. The babe would be branded seth'lin, considered an affront to all Elvhen. Both you and Vincento will receive no kinder judgment for your actions."

"Vincento!"

Hope blooms light as a summer's day, the darkest edges of her fear fading at the sudden brilliance of it. How had it taken her this long to remember? If there is anyone in all of Thedas who can offer her the salvation she so desperately needs, surely, surely it is him. In an instant she is on her feet, far too overcome by this new prospect to remain seated. She paces the floor of the infirmary in tight circles, fingers pressed to her lips with the vial long forgotten but still tucked into her fist.

"The first of the month is almost here. He'll be back within the next week for certain," she says, giddy as her heart swells with the promise of untold possibilities. "He can help me, can take me away."

"Away?"

"From here, from the clan. No one would be the wiser until it's too late."

"Da'len! Think of what you say!"

Arianni shuffles to a stop, triumph still curling the corners of her mouth as she turns to face Marethari, her enthusiasm met with drawn brows and apprehension. The woman crosses the space between them in three small steps, thin-boned fingers coming to rest against her cheek while her eyes flick back and forth across her face.

"This is your clan, your family," she says, tone threaded with sorrow which, despite the woman's efforts, shines clear as spring water through her words. "Everything you have ever known is here with us. Would you truly wish to throw it all away so easily for this man?"

She smiles softly, no hint of hesitation in her reply. "As long as he will have me."

"And if he doesn't?"

"He will."

The mage's head falls forward in resignation, eyes closing for a long moment before they rise to meet Arianni's. "Very well, child. I cannot choose your path for you. If this is what you wish, I will respect it."

"Ma serannas, Marethari," she says thickly, pulling the woman into a tight embrace as a chaste kiss is pressed against the graying hair at her temple. "I knew you would understand."

"Creators forgive me for my doubts," the First says as she returns the gesture in kind, her chin dropping into the dip of her shoulder, "but I truly hope you do not come to regret this, child."


	4. Chapter 4

**The Merchant and the Sparrow - Chapter 4**

"All right. You have my attention, Passera," Vincento says as he settles onto his cot and against the wall of his tent, hands folding to cup behind his head. "What is this news you are so desperate to share?"

Arianni sits herself next to him, the same nervous anticipation she has struggled to control since the human's arrival earlier in the day welling up to seal her throat. A hand is still buried in the pouch at her hip as she looks to him, her little wooden sparrow held fast between her fingers.

"I -" she manages to rasp out, the feel of the bird's feathers beneath her thumb easing the attempt, "took ill while you were away."

"Truly?" a dark brow shoots into his hairline, faint creases drawing themselves across his forehead. "Has Marethari seen to you?"

It feels as though she has swallowed gravel. "Yes."

"What is wrong then, cara mia?" he asks in concern, sitting forward with his elbows coming to rest against his knees. "Are you still unwell?"

She laughs at that, her thumb pressing firmer into the sparrow's wing. "I suppose that depends on what you would consider 'unwell'."

When the only response the man gives is a look of further worry Arianni grimaces, pinching the bridge of her nose. The words come quick, torn from her like the sails of a ship in a storm's gale.

"Vincento – I am with child."

She feels something between them shift, an almost palpable change descending upon them with her admission, its sound left to linger in the still air as she lifts a timid gaze to meet his own. Vincento's expression looks as though it is carved from stone, the last remnants of his concern marred by a panic she can feel in the space between them. At first he does not move, the only sign of life she can find in him the jump of a muscle at the corner of his clenched jaw. Her own dread builds with the passing of each muted second, until finally, when the tension has grown too strong for either of them to bare, he speaks.

"You – are?" he asks, the words grinding itself out of his lungs with great effort, all traces of his once smooth charm vanished. "Marethari - She is the one who told you? Is she certain of it?"

"Unquestionably so," Arianni says, her lip twitching with the shadow of a smile, his lack of outright denial of his contribution to her troubles a small but welcome comfort.

"How long has it been?"

"A month, give or take. Marethari thinks it happened during the first few times we – when we -"

"Made love."

She gives a curt nod. "Yes."

"Are others aware of it?"

"Only Marethari, myself and now you. It is unwise for anyone else to know."

He is startled by her choice of words, eyes widening as he asks, "Unwise?"

"Half-blooded elves are abominations in the eyes of the People. They are considered an insult, a weakened link in our heritage. Something to be shunned and despised. If the others knew, if the Keeper knew, the consequences would be... severe." The hand at her face falls into her lap, clutching at the hem of her tunic. "I would be called a traitor, cast out of the clan for debasing myself in such a way. They would have little mercy for you either - would consider this a betrayal of the trust they offered you by allowing you into camp."

"Caro Creatori," He says, eyes closing and voice little more than a sigh as he falls back against the wall of the tent. "Che cosa mi sono cacciato in ora."

"Vincento," she reaches out to him, demure hands closing together around his wrist and the still hidden bird. "I need your help."

"I can do nothing to change what has already been done, cara mia."

"No," she says, grip tightening around his hand, his pulse flickering against her fingertips, "but there issomething you can do to make it right."

Blue eyes open, training themselves on her face as he waits for her to speak. She pulls her bottom lip against her teeth, chewing on it as she readies herself.

"Take me with you to Antiva."

His expression shifts to an open mouthed gape at her suggestion, looking more astonished now than he had at her first mention of their predicament. "What?"

"Or Rivain, Orlais, Ferelden. The Anderfels for all that it matters. I could not care less so long as I am by your side, emma lath."

It is the poignancy of their troubles, she suspects, which allows the words to fall so carelessly from her lips, the realization of what she has called him dawning only once all is said and done. She rushes to hide her embarrassement behind a mask of quiet calm, a silent prayer of thanks sent to Dirthamen for the man's inability to understand the endearment she has bestowed upon him. Despite his lack of fluency in Elvhen, she can see that the weight of the phrase has not gone unnoticed by Vincento, his eyes shooting to where the tips of her ears have flushed with heat.

Thankfully he brings no attention to it, nor the way she is unable to meet his gaze when he speaks next, reluctance shining through. "I - do not think that would be wise, Passera."

"And why not?" she asks, easing back from her abashment at the familiarity of her name in his warm baritone. "I have already forfeited my place among the People by wishing to keep the child. Creators know I would rather spend my exile in good company than find myself wandering Thedas alone and aimless."

"I have nothing of value to offer you, let alone a, a child. My wares have only ever been enough to get me by."

"You know I am capable of contributing. I would be no burden to you," she says hotly, a flash of her old anger rising at his insinuation. "I may be no merchant, but I hunt and clean game and mend clothes as well as any you will find in your cities. Better, in fact, if the stitching on those breeches you tried to peddle to Ashalle today are any indication."

That earns her a smile, the sight of it enough to help relax some of the tension in her spine. "Ah, Arianni," Vincento says with a chuckle and slow shake of his head, "always and forever so quick tempered."

"Will you agree to it, then?" she asks, the limits of her patience fast approaching after so many days spent anxious and on edge. "Will you take me with you?"

The man's grin fades away, indecision and unease rising to take its place. "I do not know if I can offer you what you seek, cara mia. This is all so much more than I had ever anticipated. I am not a man meant to be a father."

"And you think I ever thought myself a mother?" she laughs, the hand still wrapped around his wrist sliding into his palm, lacing their fingers together and giving them a gentle squeeze.

He turns his head to look at her, returning the gesture with a short huff of a laugh. "No, I daresay you do not possess much in the way of a maternal air. I suppose that puts us on even ground."

"I suppose it does."

Her thumb runs in circles around a cracked knuckle, their speech paused as they bask in the intensity of the moment. She leans into his shoulder, head nestling into the dip as she pulls her other hand from her hip, placing it in the joint of his arm. The scent of heat and spices tickle her nose as he cranes his neck, lips pressing into the top of her head before resting his own against it.

"Please, Vincento," she says some time later, when the anxiety begins to build once more in her stomach. "This child is as much yours as it is mine. Do not make me go through this alone."

A long sigh rumbles in his chest, drawn out and weighted down by something she cannot name.

"I have business to finish in Kirkwall," he says quietly, his breath hot where it falls against her skin. "Give me one week's time from when I next leave, and I will return for you."

Relief as sweet as nectar mead floods through her, a happiness too potent to rein in taking control until she is on him, arms knotted around his neck as she covers his mouth with her own. She leans back, a cry of mixed joy and alleviation tearing from her throat as she slips her hands to either side of his face, too grateful for his promised aid to notice the distance growing in his eyes.

A week comes and goes.

A fortnight.

A month.

And still there is no sign of Vincento's return. Arianni fears the worst, her every thought and dream plagued by visions of the man lying broken, bloody, dead in a frozen Kirkwall gutter, cut down in the midst of the senseless violence the filthy city streets are renowned for. Until the day she hears the telltale creak of cart wheels pass through to the center of camp, and she is certain for one brief, glorious instant that he is safe and her – their – salvation has come at last.

But all is not how it seems. Oh, it is still a human. A merchant with impeccable manners and an accent that sings of warm sands and citrus leaves... but not her own, not her Vincento. This man is different, swarthy skinned with a bald head, course beard and an explanation for his appearance in camp which makes the blood in her veins turn to ice.

"I apologize for not having sent word sooner, signore," she hears him say to Keeper Seril with a flash of white teeth as brilliant as new fallen snow. "Vincento's return to Antiva came as a surprise to us all in the guild, but that is the bond of family, I suppose. A most dedicated son to cross an ocean to be by his mother's sick bed, would you not agree?"

The man glances up, catching sight of Arianni where she stands frozen next to Marethari, the woman's hand fisted into the back of her cloak. His dark eyes shine with the promise of secrets known, grin turning to a smirk before he speaks again.

"And this must be the lovely Arianni! I have heard the most," his gaze flicks to her stomach, where a small but prominent bump is hidden behind thick fabric, "compelling of stories about you, cara mia. Vincento wished me to send his regards, and a hope that you will find yourself well in the coming months."

Whatever else is said between this newcomer and the Keeper is lost, nothing more than a haze of gestures and muffled noise, her senses deadened beyond the ability to make out a single word. Somehow, she finds herself moving, feeling more as though she floats than walks from the pleasantries and chatter of elves over the new goods the human has brought along with him. It is not until she has reached the last tents and aravels along the edge of the camp that she realizes there is someone behind her, familiar and warm, smelling of herbs and ancient magic. Marethari's hand has not moved from her back, guiding, but not forcing her path towards the infirmary. She leaves her only once to step forward, pushing open the thick canvas to allow her entrance, eyes firm as they check to be sure they have not been seen.

Arianni stops in the middle of the tent, arms limp against her sides and expression blank, staring off into nothing as the mage slips inside behind her. The light dims when the flap falls back into place, and there is the soft shuffled movement of feet as the First comes to stand before her, her hands cupping either side of her face.

"Da'len," she says, quietly, gently, face lined with honest remorse she should not need to show, "I am so sorry."

It is too much.

With the speed of a whip crack the numbness surrounding her shatters, its jagged edges tearing at everything in its path. She falls forward into Marethari's arms and is guided slowly to the floor, legs no longer strong enough to hold her weight. Ugly, wretched sobs break free from some deep buried part of her, her hands clawing at her friend's shoulders for fear that she too will slip away from her.

She screams. She cries. She curses Vincento's name and all shemlen along with it, wishing with all she has that she had buried her arrow into his chest when she still had the chance. There are wild proclamations of revenge and desperation, of burned wooden birds and brews made from purple flowers, but she knows as well as Marethari that they are nothing more than empty threats.

The First holds her throughout her rage and her sorrow, soft platitudes and promises that everything will be alright whispered into her ears while fingers trail through the plait of her hair until her storm of violent emotions gradually calms. Howls slowly quiet, racked spasms become shuddered breaths, and finally she lies spent and motionless.

She dozes for a time, feeling as though a lifetime has passed by the time she wakes, but assured by the mage that it has been mere hours. A hot bowl of stew and ginger tea comes next, the hunger in her stomach unnoticed until the first spoonful of meat and vegetables slides down her throat. The meal is had in silence, Marethari granting her a much needed chance to collect her thoughts while she busies herself with mending the hem of her spare robe.

Afterward they talk, her options weighed and measured. In the end, though she calls herself eight different shades of foolish for it, she still comes to the same decision made in this very tent when the trees still held their leaves. She will not, she explains at the show of concern in the First's face, allow a single man's cowardice to leave her helpless. She is strong enough, is capable enough to do this on her own, more determined than ever to see the trial she has brought down upon herself through to the end, for the benefit of both herself and her unborn child.

There are promises of silence and support made, these forged by a bond stronger than any possible from petty infatuation. She receives a bundle of ginger and chamomile to help with her discomfort, along with an assurance after a short burst of magic and invasive warmth that yes, all seems well and good for now.

" Ma serannas, Marethari," she says with the setting of the sun, the older woman held tight in an embrace which speaks greater volumes of her thankfulness than any trifling words could ever hope to. "I don't know what I would do without you."

"Do not thank me yet, da'len," she says sadly, though her arms wrap around her back just the same. "There is only so much time you can buy with my help and a winter cloak."


	5. Chapter 5

**The Merchant and the Sparrow - Chapter 5**

As harsh as Marethari's words may have been, there is no denying their truth. The first few months of her pregnancy are easy enough to conceal, the herbs she takes to adding into her meals fighting off the worst of her morning sickness and trouble with sleep while the chill of harsh winter days gives her reason enough to bundle up in linens and wool. By the end of Wintermarch, however, there is little which can be done to hide her condition, the excuses of gained weight from rich foods no longer enough to fool even the most naive members of the clan.

Rumors spread like a plague amongst her kin, sidelong glances and whispers thrown to one another whenever she passes by. It does not take long for her affinity with "the other shem merchant" to be remembered, turning what was once simple curiosity into narrowed eyes and disgusted glares. None of this is spoken out loud, of course - the insult behind such slander inexcusable without proof to defend the claim. She knows the thought is there, though, the reason behind Hareth's disappointed sighs and Lenaila's refusal to acknowledge her.

This new ostracizing becomes normal as months pass, the amount of solitude she experiences growing with the size of her belly, which has more than doubled in girth by the time shoots of new grass poke their way through melting snow. The first warm days of spring are when she finds herself well and truly hindered, her movement and comfort impaired whenever she tries to sit, stand, or bend, let alone clean game or draw her bow. She eventually comes to depend on Marethari's assistance far more frequently than she wishes. The First's aid is often times met with frustration and anger Arianni knows is not deserved, but cannot stopper for the life of her. If these outbursts offend, however, it is not shown. The mage's patience proves invaluable in the worst moments of her shortened temper, her mutterings about desires to "have this done and over with" met with countless reassurances and understanding smiles.

Her wish is granted on a clear Bloomingtide night.

She and Marethari have almost finished with their evening routine, her head tipped back into a basin while the First runs water and a floral scented soap through the length of her hair. Her eyes are closed, half dozing through the soothing work of fingers against her scalp and the quiet tune her friend humming, when she is startled out of her daze by the sharp snap of something low in her belly.

She wrenches forward and out of the mage's grasp, arms wrapping around her stomach as she bends forward over her knees.

"More cramping, da'len?" Marethari asks calmly, her hand finding its place at the small of her back, rubbing in tight, practiced circles.

"I think – I think so," she says through clenched teeth, gritting against waves of smaller, but no less painful, aftershocks. "Worse than normal, though. Stronger."

"Do you need to stand?"

She nods, reaching one hand behind her to grasp the woman's arm while clenching the other to her stomach. Between the two of them they manage to bring her slowly to her feet and forward two steps before she feels a rush of something wet and warm fall between her legs.

"Mare- Marethari," she chokes out, grip turned rigid around the mage's wrist as she stares wide-eyed at the stain still spreading down the length of her breeches and pooling on the floor. "Is that what I think it is?"

Minutes pass in a blur of easy movement and little fuss. Arianni is lowered back onto her bench, damp hair dripping down her back and wet cloth clinging to her thighs while Marethari sweeps purposefully about the tent collecting spare linens and blankets for the cot. Her breeches and smalls are then shucked off and into the corner, the puddle at her feet left to be soaked up by rags while she shuffles to sit down on the bed. Her hair is pulled back from her face and braided, her tunic discarded and replaced with a loose sleeping shift.

Everything moves far slower that Arianni had suspected it would, with more than enough time passing between her water breaking and the first contractions to start for Marethari to boil a kettle of water for tea. The discomfort is harsh when they do come - a tight, twisting pain that feels as though someone has reached into her stomach to claw at her insides. The sensation is mercifully short, and soon subsides enough for her to drink her tea and nibble at an offered biscuit.

The mage does an extraordinary job of distracting her once the ache begins again, helping her to hobble around the tent when restless feet will not allow her to remain in bed. A support pole of the tent becomes a leaning post at some point during one of these sessions when the contractions begin again, her breath coming heavy as she rocks from one leg to the other, Marethari's hands working at her back to relieve some of the pain.

This cycle continues for hours, Arianni switching from sitting, to walking, to lying down on one side as her whims change, talking and even laughing through the discomfort with wishes that Vincento could be present. Not for support, of course, but so that she might strangle him for his role in her suffering.

"The damned shem coward," she says, grimacing as she shifts in place on the cot, the fingers of Marethari's hand turning blue in her grip. "If I live through this he'll need more than an ocean between us to keep me from throttling him."

"Mythal would not approve of such desires for petty vengeance, child," the First says, chuckling as she wipes the sweat from her brow with a damp cloth.

"Mythal isn't currently in the process of passing a boulder."

Not long after, Arianni is certain that she is about to split in two. Muscles in her pelvis pull and jerk and twine around one another, the agony of it only climbing when the breaks between their rounds shorten to mere minutes. Her thighs shake, shivers race down her spine, and it is impossible for her to remain still for the torment of it all. Marethari leaves her side to seat herself between her legs, shift lifted away while she presses a green lit hand to her skin, announcing with an air far too chipper for Arianni's current mood that she will be ready to push soon.

Pillows and extra quilts are piled behind her back, propping her up into a half seated position, the pressure of her own weight against the pain bringing relief she had not anticipated. When the next wave of contractions begin, Marethari instructs her to push, using her arms to help brace her legs against the bed. Arianni does as she is told, chin tucking into her chest and eyes shut tight as she bears down, groaning with the effort. She feels something inside of her slip, and a faint part of her mind which has managed not to be completely overtaken by adrenaline reels at the realization that it is her child. Something clicks into place at the thought, a blind instinct reaching up from some hidden part of her to take control, moving her limbs for her and forcing her to fight through the new pain radiating from her center.

"You are doing wonderfully, da'len," Marethari says quietly when her head falls back with the passing contraction, her fingers disappearing from their place on her thigh to offer her own a short squeeze. "The worst is almost over. All will be done soon."

Arianni finds the mage's idea of what constitutes "soon" to be generous at best, the pattern of push and rest, push and rest continuing for well beyond the next coming hour. Until all at once, finally, something changes. With bangs plastered to her forehead, knuckles shining white against the edges of her cot and throat turned raw from her cries, she feels herself tear open. Marethari's hands are gone in an instant, pressed into her groin as the baby's head emerges, its body following after a short, final push.

"Oh, Arianni. He's beautiful," she whispers, the awe in her voice the sweetest sound she has ever heard.

Until the baby - her son - begins to cry.

She looks up from her sweat stained pillows, both more exhausted and invigorated than she has ever felt in her life. Her arms move without though, hands desperate to hold him, to know him. Marethari does not hesitate to grant her what she seeks, placing the child, blood and all, against her chest. The boy wails and cries against her, bright hazel eyes shining with tears, a tuft of sopped blond hair sticking out in every direction imaginable from behind ears which are undeniably round. Tears spill without recourse down her face, the smile she wears out done only by the immeasurable swell of pride and joy which takes hold of her at the sight of him.

"Andaran atish'an, my child." Her hands fall light as a summer breeze, one at his back, the other at his head. "My Feynriel."

"Yes, welcome little one. You have my congratulations," both women jump at the appearance of the new voice, their eyes shooting as one to the now opened flap of the tent and the bent man standing before it, his withered face lined with sorrow, "and my condolences."

"Please, Keeper -"

"Silence, Marethari. You play no part in this."

"There has to be another way."

"What other option have I? Even if I were able to overlook such a blatant disregard of our laws, there is little chance the rest of the clan would be so forgiving. Banishment is a mercy compared to what they would do."

"But Arianni has more than proven her worth to the People. You have said yourself that she is one of the finest hunters - forcing her to leave would make us weaker, not stronger."

"Do not think I am unaware of this, child. It pains me to be so cruel, but exception for such treason cannot be allowed. There must be repercussions for her actions."

"Marethari," Arianni says softly, cutting off the mage as her mouth opens to speak again, a hand laid gently against her own. "We knew this day was coming for a long time."

The First's lips pull thin, worried eyes glancing down to the sleeping baby bundled in her friend's lap before looking again to their leader. "You are certain that this is the only way?"

Keeper Seril sighs, wizened fingers rubbing at his temple, the lines of his face growing deeper in the dulled light of their lantern. "One other option does exist, but I assure you, it is hardly a more merciful punishment."

"The choice between them should at least be offered to her."

"A fair enough reasoning. There is always An'duine Fein."

"An'duine Fein?" Arianni asks, unsettled by the way the color drains out of Marethari's face. "I have never heard of it."

"There is good reason for that. It is an old and brutal practice," he says, eyes growing distant as though remembering horrors from his own past. "When the Elvhen first began to wander Thedas in the time after the fall of The Dales, we were often preyed upon by humans who came too near our camps. Our soldiers were killed, our children stolen away – and our women violated. And so, An'duine Fein, The Cleansing, was created. When their assault resulted in a child, it would be brought where the Creators' influence was strongest, a place such as Sundermount, and left to their mercy."

"'Left to their mercy?'" Arianni's question is sharp. "You mean they were abandoned?"

The elder says nothing in answer, simply nods.

Her heart falters in her chest, arm wrapping tighter around her son, drawing him closer. She says bitterly, "That is absolutely barbaric."

"A barbaric act for a barbaric crime."

"Exactly," she scowls, not bothering to hide her scorn. "Vincento may have done me wrong, but he committed no such trespass against me."

"You wished to know your options," the Keeper says, unfazed in the face of her anger. "I have given them to you."

"You think I did not know I had that choice?" she asks, temper flaring, a heat behind her words she has not freed in ages. "Or that Marethari did not give it to me months ago when he first left? As though I would honestly consider such a thing after all I have gone through to bring him into this world."

"Arianni," the First says, taken aback by her disrespect, "Keeper Seril is only -"

"Is only inciting me to murder a child!" she cuts in, eyes flashing as she sways to her feet, still weak from Feynriel's birth. "Never. He will not suffer for what I have done."

The Keeper looks to her from his seat, face as blank as Marethari's emotive. "You have made your decision?"

There is not an instant of delay in her response. "Yes."

"Very well, then. Arianni, for crimes against the People and blasphemy committed in the eyes of the Creators, your place as a member of Clan Sabrae is henceforth revoked," he says solemnly, eyes hard in the delivery of his verdict. "You and the child Fenyriel are no longer welcome amongst the Elvhen."

As a final courtesy given in recognition of her time amongst their clan, Keeper Seril offers Arianni amnesty until the start of the next day, providing Marethari enough time to heal the damage left over from her labor. The mage spends the whole of the night fussing over her and the baby, packing and re-packing their things for her whilst doing her best to hide the sorrow in her eyes. What little is said between them focused around instructions and advice for hers and Feynriel's health. A satchel of herbs is slipped into her pack with the unspoken promise that it shall not be mentioned to anyone in the camp, lest the woman face consequences for her more than minimal assistance.

The morning dawns far too quickly, the sky turned grey and threatening by dark clouds. Marethari helps Arianni dress in the first rays of light, giving her a spare set of robes and a blue shawl which is turned into a sling for Feynriel, his little head nestling into the fabric as he swiftly falls into slumber. They set out together for the eastern edge of camp, Arianni refusing the offer to wait for the others to wake for proper farewells. The news will travel fast enough on its own, and she would rather avoid any further scrutiny that will come with the baby's arrival.

They do not stop walking until the sails of the clan's aravels are all that can be seen of the camp, their scarlet canvases brilliant against the mottled lands behind them. A light breeze blows through the trees, rustling their leaves and bringing with it the scent of dark earth and rains soon to come.

"Kirkwall is less than a day's journey if you stick to the paths," Marethari says after several long, silent minutes, stepping forward to tuck a loose strand of wind-blown hair behind Arianni's ear. "With luck you will be able to reach the gates by sundown. The alienage is far from ideal, but it will offer you protection unavailable on the roads."

"Vincento had mentioned a seamstress with a stall near their vhenadahl," she says, leaning into the feel of the mage's fingers against her skin. "I'll be able to find work for myself there."

"Stay away from the slums and out of the streets at night. Keep out of trouble," a small grin cracks the corner of her mouth, "and hold a firm grip on that temper of yours."

Her returning humor is only slightly forced. "Such insinuations! I am the epitome of serenity when I wish to be."

"Yes, well, you'll want to keep yourself in practice."

The First's amusement slips away as she pulls Arianni into herself, careful to mind the bundle that is Feynriel. "Be safe, da'len," she says quietly, voice wavering, "for your sake as much as his. Raise him well, teach him to be kind, and you will find happiness in this world. Even on the darkest of days."

"Ma serannas, Marethari," she says in return, her arm coming to wrap around the woman's shoulders. "I could have done none of this without your help. You will always be in my thoughts."

They pull apart from one another slowly, hands clasping before Marethari steps away. "And you in mine, child. Dareth shiral. May the Creators forever guide you and the Dread Wolf never catch your scent."

Arianni's heart is heavy and throat tight as she turns her back on her friend for the last time, though she holds her head high as she takes a first step onto the trail before her and towards a new life. She cannot be certain of what lies in wait for her beyond the woods and behind the shem city gates, but finds solace in the knowledge that she does not face it alone. Her eyes are soft as she glances down at the baby swaddled across her chest.

He sighs contentedly in sleep, a tiny fist clutched tight around a small wooden sparrow.


End file.
